


legs spread like butterfly wings

by telanaris



Series: Arcana One-Shots [18]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Consent is Sexy, F/M, Femdom, Fluff, Gen, Gentle femdom, M/M, Multi, NSFW, Oops, Other, PWP, Praise Kink, Sensory Deprivation, Smut, Spoilers for The Tower, Temperature Play, Vaginal Sex, checking in with your partner is sexy, magic sex, spoil the boy 2018, there's feelings in my smut again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 08:17:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16082144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telanaris/pseuds/telanaris
Summary: Beneath your mouth you can feel his throat vibrate with the half-stifled whimper he makes as you kiss him; his body shifts restlessly, an invitation and an urging all at once. The leather of his boots creaks, the fabric of his pants rustles; these are the sounds of his body begging, ‘touch me here, and here, and here.’____________________________________________________A NSFW expansion of Julian’s “fun” scene in Book XVI.





	legs spread like butterfly wings

**Author's Note:**

> (Please note that no gendered pronouns are used to refer to the reader, but cis female anatomy is described.)

“ _I bet we could get up to all sorts of mischief together. Or maybe all kinds of…_ fun? _Maybe you could show me."_  

As abruptly as the crimson lightning that shattered your path and brought you to here, Julian’s tone takes a turn towards the sultry. He wears the same look that he had in the Hanged Man’s realm, tangled in the vines, back arched, his eyes lidded: ‘ _I won’t bite, but I don’t mind if you do._ ’ 

Your mouth had gone dry, a heat had pooled in your gut, and all the warnings you had wanted to give him ( _ this is an unpredictable realm, it would be unwise, we should not try the patience of our host _ ) had slipped from your mind the same way water slips from cupped hands when he had asked you for pleasure. 

Of course, you are not in the Hanged Man’s realm anymore. You know the Arcana better than Julian: as fraught with peril as that otherworldly swamp had been, it was not nearly so dangerous as the realm in which you find yourselves now. It is not wise, to linger in the Tower; you know this. At the Masquerade, Asra had warned of the imminent danger, growing all the more serious the longer you are separated from your bodies. It would not do, to tarry here. 

But you and Julian… well, you have always been in danger, haven’t you? In danger of being caught by the palace guards; in danger of hanging; in danger of the succumbing to the plague, whenever (if ever) it returns. You have leapt from one danger to the next like stepping stones across a river, but none of these perils have ever stopped you from wanting to touch Julian, to hold him—to please him. Why should this present danger change anything?

(Who knows what will happen before the dawn breaks? It is possible that you may never find your way back to your body, back into the flesh and the skin that Count Lucio stole. And the memory of Julian’s execution is still so fresh in your mind— _ slam of the trapdoor, thrum of taut rope _ —as is the fear of losing him. From the beginning, since you met Julian, you have always held fast to this notion: that you must make the best of whatever time you are given. Julian is looking at you dreamily and asking for ‘ _ fun, _ ’ for ‘ _ mischief’ _ ; you are going to give it to him in spades, while you can.)

(And if, as you hope and believe, as Asra has promised, you are both to be reunited with your bodies soon? Well, that will make the time spent with Julian no less sweet, nor less precious to you. The gems of a diadem shine no less resplendent and bright if they are set among equally brilliant stones.)

For a moment, though—knowing, by now, how quickly these trysts with Julian tend to escalate—you linger in the the beginning. The air is charged with your mutual anticipation, but you want only to look at him, to soak in the sight of him, to commit this feeling to memory: the inviting curve of his lips; the cavalier waggle of his brow that  _ almost  _ hides his self-consciousness entirely. You want to remember this feeling, the ferocity of the pride burning within you from how quickly Julian had mastered that simple spell—or perhaps, the pride comes not from his mastery, but his willingness to try. You want to remember, too, how fine Julian looks in his formal wear, striking black feathers and red accents. Your eyes follow the soft creases in his silky cravat, and a thrill runs through you at the plan—the  _ mischief _ —it inspires. 

You can show him ‘ _ mischief _ , _ ’ _ yes—but the demonstration will be all the more intense if you put that cravat to better use.

“I’ll show you fun,” you purr, reaching over the scorched parchment towards him.

Julian’s cravat is smooth and slippery to the touch, a fine weave of crimson silk. A smile tugs at your lips as you wind your fingers in it, twisting the fabric between your fingers and then using that grip to pull Julian closer. You accept the invitation so plainly written in his smile; you take his mouth in yours.

Julian hums against you with a groan of satisfaction. Beneath you, paper shuffles; you hear the soft  _ thump _ of Julian’s leather-bound folio being hastily closed and then tossed to the side. He has cleared the floor to draw you nearer. He drapes an arm across your shoulders, the other around your waist; he tugs you so close you are practically sitting in his lap. With little space left between you his kiss becomes fervid: each time he fits his mouth to yours his tongue grows more daring, licking past your lips and into your mouth, eager for your taste.

It’s heady, it’s dizzying; for perhaps the hundredth time since you’ve met him, you think that you will never grow tired of Julian kissing you. For as long as you live you will meet his embrace with the same warmth. 

But tempting as his mouth is, Julian has not asked for kisses. He has asked for  _ mischief _ , fun of a very particular kind, and you intend to give it to him.

(Not so long ago, he had been so afraid and mistrusting of magic he had refused to believe Mazelinka practiced it, even when the evidence was clear and the logic was sound. Now, has performed his first spell, and he has done so  _ well _ ; you love him for it. He is capable of so much more than he knows.)

Breathing ragged, you pull away. Julian’s embrace loosens, reluctantly; his eyes remain closed, his lips still parted, as if he hopes you have merely taken a pause to catch your breath. But when no kiss is returned he slowly opens his eyes to meet yours… his smile dreamy, if a little resigned.

(As if he thinks that is all he will get—just a kiss. He has no idea, yet, of how well you intend to spoil him.)

Your fingers are still threaded in the red silk of his cravat; grinning, you give the fabric a gentle tug. “What if we make this more interesting?” you ask, your fingers climbing to the elegant knot of the cravat and releasing it. As you pull the silk loose from Julian’s collar, the fabric ripples and catches the light like river-water. Entranced, Julian watches as you hold the length of red fabric between your palms. “Do you trust me?”

His smile widens in answer. “Without reservation,” comes Julian’s reply, as his hand cups your cheek. “To the ends of the earth. Through all these realms, and further.”

There it is, again—that smile. It is the same grin he wore when you reunited with him in the Quaestor’s dungeon-laboratory after he had been resurrected: wide and confident, withholding nothing. It makes your heart beat faster. He looks so happy, so  _ content _ , and his gaze is overflowing with warm trust and adoration. He’s been wearing that smile all night since and it  _ still _ takes your breath away—it is almost enough to break your resolve and abandon your plans for the cravat entirely, so that you might bask in the look he is giving you a little longer.

_ Almost _ —but not quite. This is what convinces you: imagining how lovely he will look with the cravat tied over his eyes, how well it will match his hair and the blush that will inevitably kiss his cheeks when you show him just how much ‘fun’ magic can really be. 

You reach for his temple and comb your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp lightly with your nails. “Will you let me cover your eyes?”

At once Julian’s smile transforms from one of contentment to one of delight; his thumb brushes your cheek, and he presses a soft, grateful kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Ohhh, I do like the sound of that. You always know just what to say,” he grins, lips brushing yours before he pulls back. “Yes, please—I would like that very much.”

There had not been much doubt in your mind that Julian would refuse—in the scant days you’ve known him it’s become obvious that he is adventurous, willing to try most things—but all the same your smile widens when he agrees. You lean forward, lifting the cravat to his face… but caution slows you. Yes, Julian is enthusiastic about magic  _ now _ , but in the past he’s been very uncomfortable with it. It will be hard to gauge such discomfort, if it resurfaces, with his eyes concealed.

Rocking back onto your heels, regarding Julian seriously, you add, “You will tell me if you need me to stop whatever I am doing, right? Or if you want me to take this off. You’ll use our word?”

Julian nods, a cheery, quick dip of his chin. “Yes.”

You mirror his nod in reply, sharp and decisive; “Good.” Then, as easily as you had tied the ribbons of his mask, you lift the cravat to his face and fasten it over his eyes. Your hands linger on the back of his neck as you admire your handiwork. Already, he looks so pretty—the red of the silk brings out the color of his lips, and you indulge yourself, kissing him softly. 

Julian gasps, and the pace of his breathing quickens. “I like where this is going,” he quips, but his voice lacks its usual swagger. It’s unsteady, as though he must fight to reach for intelligible speech instead of satisfied hums and pleasure noises. But you know his words are meant for you, to reassure you: ‘ _ I like this, I trust you, I want you. _ ’

“We haven’t even begun,” you promise, your hand rounding the back of his neck as the other smooths over his jacket to his shoulder. “Lie back,” you command, guiding his descent, supporting the back of his head with your palm so he does not smack it against the stone landing in his eagerness.

When he is lain in front of you, stretched supine on the Tower landing, your hands slide down his chest, fingers finding the buttons of his shirt. By now (after dressing him in the tent outside the palace, and undressing him before climbing into the luxurious bath Nadia had offered) you are able to make short work of them. Inch by inch, his soft shirt opens, exposing the pale skin of his chest to the cool, damp air. Your fingers free the last button and part his shirt; a shudder of anticipation runs along the length of Julian’s body in answer.

How that tremor rouses your own desire! Asra always says most of magic is willpower, but even  _ you  _ are surprised at the force and speed of your own casting, and the fierceness of the will it betrays. In your haste to please Julian your hands rapidly grow cold enough to make you shiver under your own touch; you press your fingers to your arm, to be sure that you have not been overzealous, that your fingers have not grown  _ too _ cold.

Julian has had little warning of what to expect—with the blindfold around his eyes, he cannot even anticipate your touch. Spread out on the landing in front of you, he is waiting so patiently, so nicely… though he is far from relaxed. His arms are stretched taut above his head, his fingers tangled. His throat jumps as he swallows; his exposed chest rises and falls with his quick breathing, excitement written in all the angles of his body. 

Where to touch first? You want to reach for all of him, run your hands along every inch of his exposed skin. But your attention is drawn to the corner of his jaw, the place where Julian’s pulse flutters fitfully in the divet beneath the lobe of his ear; slowly you reach for him, before the tips of your fingers brush the soft skin that quivers in time with his heartbeat.

“ _ AH—! _ ”

His sharp cry of surprise echoes through the infinite loop of the tower; his whole body jumps when your fingers make contact. But when you pull your hand away, Julian searches for its touch; blindly, he turns his head this way and that, craning his neck. His pink tongue darts out to wet his lips—you take his chin in your hand and follow the path of his tongue with your thumb, tracing an icy crescent along his bottom lip.

This time he does not gasp but groan. The tension in his arms and shoulders coils tighter, and he parts his lips, wrapping them around the pad of your finger to entice it into his mouth; you allow yourself to be led, slipping your thumb between his teeth. With the magic emanating from your hand, his mouth feels so pleasantly warm; it leaves your spine tingling. His lips purse around your thumb, taking it to the second knuckle, running his tongue along the digit until you pull it from his mouth, leaving him panting. Teeth digging into his lower lip, he lets out an impatient huff of displeasure, before tilting his head back and exposing the length of his throat, offering it up for your touch.

(You are struck by how well you have come to know him in less than two short weeks. In the community theatre, crowded among props and costumes and set dressings, he had tilted his head and guided your mouth to the muscle that ran from his ear to his clavicle and said, ‘ _ here. _ ’ Now, his body is as familiar to you as it is cherished; you know where he is most sensitive. When he exposes his throat to your frosty touch, you know just where to caress him.)

Julian is not left waiting for long. Your chilled fingers glide down his neck from his ear to his collar. Then, remembering the warmth of his mouth around your thumb, you dip your head towards him, pressing languid, open-mouthed kisses along the same path traveled by your fingers.

Beneath your mouth you can feel his throat vibrate with the half-stifled whimper he makes as you kiss him; his body shifts restlessly, an invitation and an urging all at once. The leather of his boots creaks; the fabric of his pants rustles; these are the sounds of his body begging, ‘ _ touch me here, and here, and here. _ ’

That seems a clear indication of arousal, but you and Julian have never tried anything like this before—and up until now, he’s always been apprehensive about magic. You slow the descent of your fingers, bringing them to rest over the notch of his clavicle. Your mouth moves against his skin as you ask him, “Is this alright? Is it good?” 

( _ You love him. You have not told him this yet—it has been less than a fortnight. But you know it anyway, with a steely certainty. You would never do anything to hurt him; you do not want to make him uncomfortable, even by accident. _ )

But Julian’s reply comes quick, breathless in the ecstasy with which he responds. “ _ Magnificent, _ ” he sighs, his throat jumping as it shapes the word. “It’s marvelous, it’s…  _ magical, _ ” he adds with a light laugh and a grin. “Please, don’t stop.”

You laugh, too, a warm puff of breath against his neck. Very well, then—as long as Julian persists in encouraging you, you have no intention of stopping. “Okay. I won’t.” Once more your hand grazes his skin, a caress that runs the length of his throat from chin to clavicle; as your fingers circle that delicate notch of bone, you follow that same path with teeth, scraping along the underside of his jaw. Your fingers trace one wing of his clavicle outward; your mouth finds the other, taking his skin between your teeth and tugging.

It wrests a plaintive cry from his throat which goes taut with the sound, tendons standing in sharp relief. An encouragement, as if you needed it; your mouth moves to his opposite clavicle to lavish it with hungry attention, teeth scraping over the cold-bewitched skin, while your fingers dip to trace the other, left warm in the wake of your kisses. 

Julian’s teeth find his bottom lip, but this does nothing to muffle the whine that builds in the back of his throat. “You can be rougher with me, you know,” he says, in a tone that might be a taunt if it did not sound so needy. “Or make your fingers colder—I can take it—”

But he cuts himself off with a gasp when your cold fingers find his nipple and pinch. His back arches beautifully, pushing off the floor and rising to your touch, all of his chest and his core seized tight as you roll and flick his nipple between forefinger and thumb until it hardens—which is not very long. His body trembles with each desperate pant, shoulders still digging into the landing, his midriff hovering in the air. When you place your cold palm flat against his sternum, he shivers; when you draw your warm tongue over the pink, pert skin of his nipple, he cries out, and his body twists and presses towards your kiss.

He is a mess beneath you—panting, trembling. Your palm on his chest shepards him back onto the floor, but still Julian twists, writhing beneath you as you lavish the same pattern of attention on his other nipple: a teasing, frigid touch followed by the generous warmth of your mouth. He’s babbling, begging, encouraging: “ _ Yes, please—please, more _ .” By the time your hands draw down his stomach, dancing along the line of hair that beckons you below the band of his pants, Julian is already straining against his trousers’ seams, half-hard. 

Two cold fingers dip beneath his hem and curl, giving his pants a demonstrative tug. “Julian? Will you help me with these?” Julian groan, nods. Although the cravat still covers his eyes, you can see his eyebrows are arching together, and you can guess well enough what look he might give you if he could: longing and needy, his eyes heavy-lidded and encouraging. 

Permission granted—it pulls a pleased hum from you. You unlock your fingers from the band of his trousers and trace a curve along the smooth expanse of his stomach. Julian shakes, his abdomen clenching, but that tension eases a little when you pull your cold hands away and situate yourself between his legs, loosening the garters that keep his impossibly tall boots cinched to his thighs. You cup the heel of his boot and gently ease it off his foot; the rest of the boot shaft follows. It is easier to see the shape of his legs, the coiled pleasure-tension in his calves when they are not clad in thick leather; tight as his legs are, you still cup your hand around the ball of his foot and lift it, pressing a chaste kiss to the notch of his ankle before easing it back to the landing and reaching for the other boot.

Once he is shoeless, the rest is easy: you reach for the fastenings of his trousers and unbutton. All the while Julian's breath comes unsteady. He lifts his hips obligingly so you can slip his trousers down his legs and leave him bare; you hold his waist aloft as you rearrange the tails of his coat beneath him, so that when you guide his hips back down they rest on the fabric of his formal wear instead of the cold, paved tower stone. 

As Julian settles, he parts his legs, leaving you plenty of space to situate yourself between them. His thighs tremble in expectation of your touch; instead, you begin at his feet. 

Ten fingers find his heels and circle them. He is so slender, but in his joints—his ankles, his wrists—he looks so  _ strong _ , sharp juts of bone and thick muscle. (In his ankles, strength from running; in his wrists, strength from writing.) Slowly, you trail your fingers upwards, along the straining muscles of his calves to his knees. As they ascend the coarse hairs of his legs rise and stand on end—it only arouses your own longing, to see him react so visibly to your touch. But you are patient; you can wait to sate your own desire. 

Julian is decidedly  _ not _ patient. His legs begin to shudder, a tremoring that only becomes more severe the higher your hands climb. Your fingers dip to his inner thighs, tracing constellations on skin that quivers beneath your touch. Again, his heels dig into the landing, and his hips lift off the floor; his cock—flushed now, fully erect—sways towards your touch as be bucks his hips towards your cold hands.

But how can you resist teasing him a little longer? Julian makes the effort so  _ rewarding.  _ You skim the flesh of his thighs, you creep along the cut of his leg where it meets his waist; again and again, you tease down the delightful path of hair on his stomach. Never once do your cold hands wrap around his arousal. Every time you draw close, Julian’s breath catches, and his body stiffens in anticipation… every time, you draw your hands away, down his legs once more or across his chest. Cold fingers press firmly along his taint, and Julian whimpers pitifully, turning his head and muffling his pleasure and his impatience against his arm. Above his head his fingers are clenched into fists; there is a blush on his cheeks that is quickly deepening to the same shade of crimson as his cravat. 

Beautiful, he is so beautiful—you want to spend the rest of your life making him feel just as radiant and exquisite as he looks in this moment. 

Look at him: huffing into his arm, chest heaving as it expands with every chased, desperate breath, his legs folded with his ankles drawn practically to his waist, his knees in the air and his legs parted like the wings of a butterfly. Look at him—after all, he can’t look at you. In the darkness behind the blindfold he can’t see your mouth, lips swollen from the flood of kisses you’ve lavished upon him; he knows only the sound of your voice, the rasp and the purr in your words as his arousal inflames your own. In his darkness, your hunger growls, howls for him. Behind the red silk he cannot see your hands, their indecisive flutter as you try to decide which part of him to touch next; he only knows the gift of their touch, now just frigid enough to sting.

He has placed himself utterly at your mercy—he has trusted you. You have teased him plenty. The time has come to reward that trust with generosity, a touch that will leave him winded and shaking and maddened with pleasure. 

And you know just how—you’ve seen it before—Julian’s whole body curled tight around you, your fingers buried within him, his legs trapped in a ceaseless quivering as you coax him closer and closer to his release. Then, he had still been so apprehensive of magic; you would never have dreamed of bringing spells and charms into your intimate play. Now, you want to show him. You want to curl your fingers within him, hear him gasp and choke and cry out as the cold drains out of them and melts into a blooming, soothing warmth, pressed against that spot within him that makes him writhe. 

Of course, if you were in the waking world, you'd want certain items: a softer surface to lie him down upon; a lubricant. But you are in the malleable realm of the Arcana, and these bodies are more illusion than flesh. What has Asra always said? ‘ _ The realms of the Arcana are shaped by belief and intent. _ ’ All you intend to do is give him pleasure until he’s had his fill of it.

Still, it might be a stretch to assume Asra’s wisdom is applicable to such erotic exploits—and you do not want to hurt Julian. As much as you have enjoyed your game, taken pleasure in keeping Julian in suspense, you will not take this next risk unless he explicitly permits it. 

Your hand sweeps along the arc of his hip bone, skating brisk across his abdomen before it flattens over his lower stomach. “Julian?”

He’s breathing heavily, so lost in the pleasure and the torment of your teasing that at first, you think he has not heard you. But after a few unsteady exhales, he swallows. “Yes, darling?”

‘ _ Darling. _ ’ The affection never fails to charm you; he calls you so sweetly. Even now it brings a smile to your lips, a light warmth to your cheeks. You linger in the comfort of this affection, before you remind yourself of your responsibility, the question on the tip of your tongue:

“Can I… can I finger you?” 

The trepidation in your voice is obvious to you, but Julian is untroubled by it: his breath catches, and you can feel his core tighten under your hand. He licks his lips before he replies; when he does, his voice is breathy.

“I appreciate your commitment to my comfort, dear,” he says, “but I promise, that is a question to which the answer will always be ‘ _ yes.’ _ ”

“But I don’t have anything to—”

“To what? To slicken your fingers?” he asks with a cheeky grin, cutting you off. “It won’t be the first time. And anyway, a brilliant magician—a creative type like yourself—are you really telling me you don’t have a spell for  _ that _ ?”

He’s teasing, you know. But something about it unsettles you. The sense that he is trying to goad you into action, into a touch that might bring more pain than pleasure. It is evidence, you suspect, of an old habit, self-destructive and punishing: perceiving himself undeserving of pleasure, he has sought pain, needing to be touched one way if not the other. How many other lovers has he allowed to treat him so carelessly, so cruelly? You will not be among their number.

But there is no spell you can recall (or none, anyway, that Asra has deemed necessary to teach you) that would suit the task at hand. After all, there is perhaps less practical use for greasing up one’s hands than for warming them. Still, you remember Asra’s words— _ the realms of the Arcana are shaped by intent _ —and you concentrate on the memory of the feeling of Julian’s cravat between your fingers, slippery and smooth. Half of magic is will, and in this moment, you could not be more determined. Gradually, to your great satisfaction, your cold fingers begin to glisten and slip against one another, sleek. When they are slickened to your satisfaction, you lower them between Julian’s legs, but before he knows your touch you lift your free hand to his face, and pull the blindfold from his eyes.

Julian blinks, adjusting to the light, before his eyes meet yours. His mouth curls into a smarmy grin, his eyebrows lifting into their signature waggle… but then the transformation ceases. It must be the seriousness of the look on your face that stills him. His smile dissolves and his brows settle, and he pushes himself off the ground to sit in front of you, his eyes level with yours. He reaches for your cheek.

“What is it?” he asks, quietly, concern plain in his voice.

Closing your own eyes you turn your face to the warmth of his hand, relishing the feel of his touch. Your hand lifts to cover his, and you hold it steady as you plant a kiss on his palm. Only after a deep breath do you meet his eyes again.

“Please, Julian… do not try to provoke me into hurting you.” 

Julian opens his mouth like he’s going to retort, but his words fail him; he shuts his mouth just as quickly, his brow furrowing, his expression troubled. You hold his hand tighter against your face.

“I want to please you,” you tell him, holding his gaze. “I want to give you what you want. If it is pain you seek, I will grant it—but only because it is sought after explicitly, and only when requested. Not because I am being careless, or because we have been thoughtless in our preparations. I don’t...” you pause, choosing your next words carefully. 

“If you want me to hurt you, I will—but not like that. Not so flippantly, as though it is nothing.”

Julian’s mouth falls open. He holds your gaze briefly before his eyes fall—and is it just your imagination, or are they glistening? “You’re right,” he admits with a begrudging smile, “as usual. That certainly sounds… good. Healthier than I’ve been, maybe. I just…”

His eyes are fixed to the floor; he forces a mirthless laugh. When his eyes meet yours again, they are apologetic. “I’m sorry. This, being with you… it’s new for me.” Julian favors you with a bashful smile, his thumb stroking the rise of your cheek. “I’ve never met anyone like you before—no one who treats me the way you do. That I am safe with you… sometimes, I forget,” he admits, with a hint of embarrassment. “I might keep forgetting for awhile—I’m sorry for that, too.” 

It nearly breaks your heart, to hear him apologize for it. You want to tell him that all the people who taught him that pleasure must always be twinned with danger were wrong—but you know it is a lesson that you will have to teach him over time, with gentleness and patience. So, “You are forgiven,” you tell him, leaning towards him until the tip of your nose brushes his. “And I will keep reminding you. I will keep you safe until you believe it—until you trust it. Until you know it in your bones.”

Even with his face so near to yours, when he speaks next, his voice sounds so small:

“That sounds nice,” he whispers. “I’d like that.”

What is there to say, then? The moment feels so fragile and delicate. You tilt your head to draw your face closer to his, and kiss him softly, just the plush of your lips against his. Julian sighs, meeting your kiss just as gently—almost timidly. When you pull away, his gaze is soft and adoring, and he frees his hand from yours to run it through your hair.

“Now,” you say, matter-of-factly, with a mischievous quirk to your lips, “may I finger you?”

Julian tilts his head in confusion. “But I thought that you said—”

You grin, cutting off his words with another quick kiss before you whisper against his lips, “I’m  _ creative, _ remember?” But he has not seen the magic you wrought; when your cold fingers press to his entrance, slickened, it comes as a surprise.

Julian's reaction is immediate. His hips cant towards your touch, and his head falls forward, forehead kissing against yours, the half-strangled pleasure sound he makes brushing warm against your face. When you press the pad of your finger in to the first knuckle he gasps in delight before the sound decrescendos into a musical litany of pleased whimpers. His body curls tighter; his fingers finds the hairs at the nape of your neck and wind into them, desperate for a grip to ground him. “ _ Yes _ ,” he praises, so softly and breathless it is almost a sigh. “Yes, please—”   


“Tell me if anything hurts. If you want me to stop—”   


“Please don't,” he begs, and his core clenches—you can feel him tightening around your finger—as if he thinks that by squeezing your hand hard enough he might discourage you from removing your hand.

“Then I won’t,” you promise, dipping your mouth to press a kiss to his neck. “Will you lie back for me? I’d like to see you.”

“Alright.” He frames your face with his hands and presses one last hungry kiss to your mouth, before settling back on his coat. 

“Stay still,” you instruct. “Relax.”

Other than a faint trembling in his legs, Julian obeys. You take a deep breath, then work your finger, little by little, deeper inside of him.

His blindfold has been removed, but now his eyes are closed, squeezed shut to better feel the cold pressure burrowing within him. When he’s taken your finger fully a shiver runs down the length of his body; you can feel it, the faint quiver of his muscles around you. “Another?” Julian asks, cracking his eyes open to meet yours and biting his lip.

You oblige; you withdraw your hand and press middle and ring finger to his entrance, before sliding—slowly, gently—inside of him. The tight warmth of his ass feels even warmer than usual around your cold hands; when you scissor and curl your fingers within him, his abs tighten, and his blush returns to his cheeks with a vengeance. He watches you with lidded eyes, lifting his hips from the ground to grind them against your hand, taking your fingers fully to the knuckles.

“Please, like that,” Julian pleads, swallowing hard. “You’re close, I can feel it—just a little deeper—”

His sentence is swallowed by a choked wail of pleasure as the pads of your fingers meet their target. Julian throws his head back, the tendons of his neck stretched against his cries; all of the muscles of his core and his legs spasm tighter; his dick twitches and spills, a stream of clear precum dripping, then pooling, on his stomach.

...it is, maybe, one of the hottest things you have ever seen; for a second, you forget to breathe, focused only on the pressure of your fingers inside of him and the pitched moans they elicit from him.  _ Gods, _ he is so beautiful. Your appetite and patience for teasing abandons you; as he thrusts his hips weakly against your fingers, still curling and pressing against his prostate, your free hand (just as cool as its match) wraps around the head of his cock, lubricating your touch with his own leak as you stroke him from tip to base.

“ _ Mmmngh. _ ” The cry Julian makes is half-stifled and unintelligible, but it’s  _ loud _ ; it echoes eerily through the Tower as he plants his elbows behind him, halfway to sitting upwards, his body curling tighter around the pleasure you grant him. “That’s— _ oh, _ that’s divine. Oh,  _ fuck _ , it’s good, I—” but then a shiver so violent runs through him it silences him, leaves him moaning weakly and panting, his chin fallen nearly to his collar and his brow pinched.

It’s good—it’s  _ nothing. _ Your own body tightens with a current of excitement and you close your eyes—you’ll never be able to focus on the magic with Julian looking at you as he is, wound up and yearning for satisfaction, so eager to please he might come on command if you asked. But in the darkness behind your eyelids, you slow your breathing. You focus not on Julian’s delightful pants and whimpers, nor the feel of his muscle clenching you tightly, but on visions: distant sands warmed under a merciless sun, bread fresh from the oven, a fur blanket beside the fire (the warmth of his arms around you, shielding you from the cold)—

“ _ Hh-hah,  _ ah—!”

His long legs wrap around you and clench, tight; his arms jolt and he jerks upright so fast it’s though he’s been galvanized. That’s it, too much—he can no longer hold back—a tortured retinue of hums and whines falling from his lips before he takes your face in his hands and draws you into another kiss, sloppy and heated. His hand scrambles, unsteady and indecisive and frantic with pleasure, from your face to your shoulders to your waist, urging you closer. You can feel each shudder that passes through him, the warmth of every shaking exhale against your ear. Beneath you, welcoming your hand, his legs spread wider. 

You release his cock, wrapping your arm instead around his back. Your hand glides between his shoulder blades with a cool, refreshing touch as you cradle his body against yours; he buries his face against your neck, his moans and pants condensing against your flesh. He holds to you so tightly, arms and legs alike, his knees squeezed about your middle.

“I am so proud of you,” you murmur, hot and husky against his ear. You can feel the skin of your neck vibrate with his muffled, unintelligible response; in answer, you pump your fingers inside of him, his legs shaking as you find the source of his pleasure again and a again. “A week ago I never could have convinced you to try magic—and now you did, and you did  _ so good _ , Julian. My brave, clever, adventurous doctor.” 

The sound he makes is still muffled against your skin, but you can hear it's pitch, high and strangled. “I was so lucky, Julian. So lucky to meet you when you stumbled into the shop.” You rake your nails lightly against his shoulders and he shivers, shudders, writhes around your fingers; you tell him, “You are the most remarkable person I’ve ever met,” and he sobs against your clavicle, the grip of his legs around your waist tightening.

Too tight—you have been patient, generous, but you have waited enough.

You release your grip on his shoulders, hand coming instead to his knees, trying to loosen their grip on you. This earns you a petulant sob, which mounts to a displeased, bratty whine when you pull your fingers out of him and leave him bereft.

“Don't worry, Julian,” you reassure him, still parting his legs and easing yourself out of them. “I'm not finished with you yet.” 

Freeing yourself from his limbs, you bring your hands to the hem of your dress—in one fluid movement, you pull it over your head. Julian’s eyes shoot open at the sound of fabric rustling. His eyes widen at the sight of you undressing, and he bites his lip as you slide your underwear down your thighs. Once bare, you climb into his lap, lowering your waist until the wet heat of your lips kisses his weeping cock.

Julian gasps—and for the first time, you gasp in concert with him at the feel of his head gliding along your sex. After attending to his pleasure even this faint touch is enough to leave your toes curling, a flush creeping up your neck, and though you’d like to feel the press of him against your clit, at the touch of his slick cock to your heat (after all this time of listening to all of his exquisite sounds, each one of them winding the pleasure tighter in your body) you no longer have the patience. 

Taking your lip between your teeth, you lower yourself onto him, sinking around him inch by inch until your hips meet his and he has no more girth left to give. He fills you; with even the subtlest shift of your hips as you breathe and adjust you can feel the press of his cock within you, hard-slick-leaking, so close to his own unraveling.

With a groan, Julian takes your face between his palms and draws your mouth to his. The kiss is languid, ardent; but his mouth falters and falls from yours when you begin to rock your hips against his, driving his cock into you. He moans lightly, leaning his forehead against yours; when your thumb—cold again—find his nipple and circles, he keens.

“Julian, you are a natural,” you whisper, and he whimpers under your praise, bucking his hips weakly against yours as you ride him. Your own words become lighter, huffed through your pleasure, the spine-tingling press of his cock inside of you; you swallow a moan of your own, press a kiss to his jaw. “Such a quick study—I am going to teach you  _ so much _ , we will get into such mischief—this is only the beginning.”

“I want that,” Julian gasps, releasing your face, one of his hands dropping to squeeze your ass and guide it as you thrust against him. “I want to. Will you—will you show me how?”

“Yes, of course. I will show you everything, anything; I’ll—”

“No, I mean…” Julian asks, pulling away to look you in the face. He’s bashful, again, but there’s an earnesty in his eyes. “I meant, will you show me how,  _ now _ ?”   


“Oh.” 

You don’t want to discourage him; after all, that he has finally begun to embrace magic means so much to you. But the spell you had taught him—the last lesson—had required paper and ink, and that’s been thrown across the landing three feet away, and anyway, you’re not really sure what good that would do, to teach him another trick like that while you’re straddling his lap. Have you misunderstood? “What, you mean right now?”

“Yes, can you—” Julian swallows his words, and his blush deepens. “I thought—maybe, if you showed me, I might…” his words trail off, and he offers you a soft smile. 

 “I want to make you feel good, too.”

You want to tell him that you already do—the sweet ache of his cock inside of you, the delicious friction of it against your walls as you drive your hips to his. But he has asked so nicely, and his intentions are good; there is no harm, you think, in trying. 

After all, Asra always says most of magic is will—and you have no doubt of Julian’s desire to please you. Maybe he’s right; perhaps he just needs to be shown.

“Okay,” you concede, reaching for his hand. Tangling your fingers, you tell him, “Think of cold things. A brisk sea breeze on the southern seas before the warmth of dawn. Snow. Purple mountains so tall their peaks stretch into the very clouds.”

Julian’s eyes widen as you raise his hand to your mouth and pull your thumb past your lips, chilling it against your tongue, looking at him all the while. If nothing else, his hand will retain the cold when you release it, even if he cannot create the sensation himself. But he bites his lip as he watches you, and you can see the wheels turning behind his head, putting two and two together.

‘ _ You’re a natural, _ ’ you’d praised him; when he pulls his finger from your mouth, he proves it to be no lie.

“ _ Oh, _ ” he breathes, dragging his thumb down your lip, your chin, your throat. “The path to the salt baths in Nevivon, in winter,” he says, sighing sweetly at the memory, and—you gasp—his fingers  _ do _ grow colder. He swallows, watching your face twist in pleasure as he thumbs over a pert nipple, the hand on your ass drawing you closer as you press into his touch. “Two feet of snow, and the path so treacherous, crusted with ice from all the previous pilgrimages.” His finger only grows cooler as it trails down your chest, chilled not by your magic but his own—new, green, blooming. From chest to soft stomach he descends, his voice lowering to hardly more than a whisper. “Freezing in the winter air… until you get to the springs,” he says, slipping his thumb between the folds of your flesh and seeking your clit, “and step in.”

With a sharp cry of surprise your face falls against his, your hand lifting from his chest to cradle his face. You are swollen, sensitive, and each flick of his cold fingertip against your clit is delicious. His touch is as intense as winter. His long fingers curl around your thigh for purchase, and even as you thrust against him (and even as your thrusting grows less and less regular and rhythmic) he follows each movement with his own, thumb chasing the bud of your pleasure and dragging you further into euphoria at his side.

_ Incredible.  _ Surely it must have something to do with where you are—one would have to be some kind of prodigy to pick up magic so quickly in the waking world—but that he has accomplished such a feat in the malleable realms of the Arcana leaves you no less impressed. “ _ Julian, _ ” you croon, your hips bucking erratically against his, “you  _ did it, _ brilliant, you’re— _ ahh, _ yes, right there!”

You are gasping, chasing a breath you cannot catch: as your body curls tighter each thrust grows weaker, but drives the press of him firmer against the delicious bundle of nerves that leaves you squeezing your eyes shut and clenching around him. His hand adjusts its grip on your waist. He guides your hips in three sharp thrusts—one, two, three—and then it is too much, pressed between his cock and his fingers, and you are unspooling, fingers in his hair, holding him close, assailed with pleasure. Surely he can feel the tightness that comes with your pleasure as clearly as you’d felt his ass clutch your fingers; he comes a moment later with your name on his lips, spilling, then stilling—holding you close. 

  
  


It is Julian who recovers first. His hands trace circles on your back as your breathing slows, and he heaves a great sigh of contentment, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

“Well, darling,” he muses aloud, fingernails scratching lightly at the small of your back, “it was a low threshold to clear, but this Masquerade is  _ definitely _ an improvement on my last.”

You have yet to fully level after your climax, but still you drag your head out of his neck, giving him a hazy, bemused look. “Are you certain?” you tease, with a lopsided grin. “Even with chasing all the goats, and negotiating with menacing Arcana, and being banished from our bodies?”

Julian grins, smiling wide and satisfied before he presses another kiss to your cheek. “Even then,” he assures you, pulling away to favor you with an adoring look. “I mean, come on—dancing with you? That bath?  _ This? _ ” He laughs lightly, running his hands through your hair. “I think we are making the most of it—that we’ll be telling tales about it for the rest of our lives. It has everything, doesn’t it, this Masquerade? Excitement, danger, romance… two dashing, brave protagonists… even a little smut.”

He punctuates that last suggestion with his signature, exaggerated brow waggle, and you can’t help but laugh. You think of all the stories he’s told you… and all the corrections Portia’s made to those same stories. “I look forward to seeing how all those details become more dramatic in subsequent retellings.”

“Hey, now!” Julian balks in mock-offense. His hands round to your front, stealing up your sides, smoothing along your arms. “I’m  _ always _ truthful. I’ll tell it just like it was: that you levitated me off the ground and made me come thrice, and that I had to walk into the Magician’s realm to rendez-vous with Asra while trying to hide a crippling sex-limp.”

“ _ Julian!” _ you yelp, swatting lightly at his hands, but laughing all the same. Julian laughs, too.

“Alright,” he says, “let’s get going, get dressed again. We’ve got bodies to repossess, right?” He leans forward, still grinning, pressing the sweetest kiss to the tip of your nose. “If anything, this has made me more eager to get back to my skin, now that I have a better idea of all the wicked, bewitching things you intend to do to it.”

You couldn’t agree more.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly they should just get a punch card at this point, try to frick-frack in all 22 realms of the Major Arcana. Just really go for broke, y'know? Maybe if they complete the set they get a prize.


End file.
